


say the word, quickly now

by WeAreTomorrow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:16:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTomorrow/pseuds/WeAreTomorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But it always comes back to “you have my mother’s eyes”.</p><p>It’s counter-productive, Dean thinks, insides aching, to get hung up on these details.</p>
            </blockquote>





	say the word, quickly now

It’s a Wednesday when everything goes to shit.

Dean stands at the other side of the poker table as a stranger, facing someone who isn’t his brother, not for tonight. It’s a bar with a name like every other bar in Missouri, unimportant, but a good place for this particular con, the one where they get to be different people. Sam plays the lucky airhead, red-bitten lips parting in a wet ‘oh’ every time he wins. Dean is having trouble concentrating, distracted by the long fluttering shadows Sam's eyelashes make against his cheekbones.

They meet at the car after, so smug and temporarily rich, lingering in the roles of strangers. But it always comes back to “you have my mother’s eyes”.

 _It’s counter-productive_ , Dean thinks, insides aching, _to get hung up on these details_.

Like when Sam grins all slick-happy, perfectly drunk and leaning against the side of his car with the money tucked in the waistband of his pants like a stripper, jutting hipbones clearly defined in the streetlight. Dean blinks away the image like he would tears, short of breath.

“Get in,” he says hoarsely, because.

It starts to rain, darkening the shoulders of Sam’s coat with water-splotches and Dean shifts, leans over Sam to take the brunt of it, because that’s what he does, this is what he does, he protects his brother from everything and anything and himself. It makes his brother look younger, being wet. Dean has always liked the color Sam’s hair turns when it’s soaked, plastered against his face. Rain is good because it means hot chocolate and no hunting and they used to catch raindrops on their tongues, laughing too hard for it to work, pretending to be children.

If he sticks his tongue out now it’ll touch the corner of Sam’s face where his smile dimples and thoughts like that don’t make sense but he keeps thinking them, doesn’t he?

"Let’s go home,” Dean says, instead.

Sam sways forward, closer than strangers have the right to be. His breath smells like cheap beer and victory and heat, Dean drawn forward with magnetism and did you know on average people fall in love within five minutes of meeting? Chemical compatibility and shit.

“I’m not that kind of guy,” Sam says, voice running out of oxygen at the edges and his fingers twisted in Dean’s jacket to keep from falling over.

His hands are at Sam’s waist and he wonders what this looks like from across the street, to the people who might glance out the window. It’s not what it looks like, not what it feels like, not what he thinks it could be. _He_ _has my mother's eyes_ , he reminds himself but raindrops cling to his eyelashes, blurring the reality of their facts, and it could be anybody's bodyheat soaking through his chest. But it's not, it's not. 

“Sam,” Dean warns, because. Family is all that they have, all that they are, all that they're allowed to be.

“I can’t,” Sam says, begging, killing him, “Dean, please.”

His brother is pined to the car under him, hands against Sam’s waistband, like boundaries about to be crossed, like unexplored territory, his fingers brushing the forgotten cash, and this is not the way strangers touch each other, like they can’t breathe.

“Just this once,” Sam tells him, splintering, slipping through his fingers.

Dean presses into him harder, to keep him upright. He won’t, can’t let go. Rough fingers tug against the fabric of his shirt, downward, inward, the back of collar digging into his neck as he stiffens his resolve. A sharp hipbone presses against his upper thigh, his thought process stuttering.

“Sammy,” Dean answers, hopelessly.

He licks his dry lips and their orbits teeter dangerous, threatening collision. Dean is fucked, so thoroughly, completely fucked in this parking lot of a bar he forgot the name of on a Wednesday in the back country of Missouri. Sam’s nose is cold against his collarbone, brushing the exposed skin. Clenching teeth against a sudden wave of heat, spiking temperatures like erratic heartbeats, unreliable, Dean has no defenses. It sticks in his throat, the word ‘no’. He tries to force it out between numb lips but his exhale is wordless and shaky.

“Dean,” says Sam, and it destroys him, “I can’t—“

They can’t, not here in the parking lot of a bar in the back country of Missouri who would kill them twice over for their lesser crimes. How many miles do they need between who they are and who they want to be?

“Get in the car,” Dean whispers, without stepping back.

“Not tonight,” Sam answered, eyes slitted as he stares up at Dean like he’s too bright, like it hurts his eyes to look. Dean can’t either, fixating on the cluster of freckles, located right under his left ear, trying to slow his heart rate. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for his brother if he asked but Dean turns his cheek to catch the kiss Sam presses into him and his face is too slick with rain to burn but it burns anyway and these thoughts don’t make sense, they don’t.

“Dean,” Sam begs, hot like fire at every touching point, “Look at me, Dean.”

The back of his knees are cold and he wants to wrap his legs around his brothers waist and burn and burn but he can’t, because—

“I’m supposed to protect you,” Dean tries to explain.

“Stop,” Sam commands and there is nothing Dean wouldn’t do for his brother, when he asks.


End file.
